One of the first pieces of advice I heard about writing fiction was write what you know. To my untutored mind, especially as a potential Indie author with no professional support, that struck alarm bells clanging like Big Ben at midnight. What did I know? Nothing at all that would interest a reader.
I’ve lead an unremarkable life that began in a terraced house in the back streets of Kettering and progressed through school, marriage, children, and divorce to end up, if indeed I have ended up, via a village Post Office, an art gallery, and a smallholding, in an over my dead body bungalow with my second husband in Pembrokeshire. What did I know about anything beyond my narrow confines? Even my literary and art history is only 0.5 on the Richter scale.
Then I heard a re-interpretation of this golden rule. Write WHO you know. This…
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